


rabiosa

by Anonymous



Category: Polygon/McElroy Vlogs & Podcasts RPF
Genre: Daddy Kink, Dirty Talk, Explicit Sexual Content, Fucking in lieu of Feelings, M/M, Rough Sex, Spanking, bdsm-adjacent?, but it's just pwp all the way down, humiliation overtones, it might hit you wistful if you squint, kinda angry sex?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-11
Updated: 2019-07-11
Packaged: 2020-06-26 14:02:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19769725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: oye papi / vuelveme loca / aruñame la espalda / y muerdeme la bocafrom urban dictionary:RabiosaDominican for being sexually frustrated to the point of being irritable or angry.Syn. Hornery





	rabiosa

**Author's Note:**

> another unbetaed nightmare brought to you by pat "oh daddy" gill
> 
> as usual, nothing to see here that reflects reality in any facet, all just stray fictional creations, _soy rabiosa_ , &c &c
> 
> \- fish

“Why the _fuck_ did you leave that in?” 

Brian’s answering snort is cut off as Pat’s broad hand _slams_ him into the wall, flat against his sternum, not painful but so hard his wobbly shelf of spices rattles.

“Chill the hell out, Patrick,” he hisses, with a scowl. “Laura’s _here_ tonight.” 

“Fine,” Pat withdraws. Despite the growling voice, the lines of his body relent a little, curl with a tentativeness that he buries quickly, crossing his arms in front of himself, face flat, drawn-in, all squared-off certain sulkiness of indeterminate sincerity. “But I want an answer. My fucking subs mocked me for like an _hour_ over that shit.” 

Brian weighs the ways this night is gonna go instantaneously, and launches his urge to apologize into the sun. “I know. ‘bout fifty-fifty on whether they hated you for it or paid you to say it again, huh?” 

Pat’s expression hardens, his lines resolve. No longer tight with indecision, just _sharp_ , aggressive, scowling. “Shut up.”

Brian smirks as he pushes past, knocking hard into his shoulder. “Why? It looked like you made quite a few bits over it, camgirl.” 

He’s headed for his room, so he only hears the aborted sigh, imagines rather than sees the futile gesture of exasperation, the plaintive air-strangling of a man who doth protest too much. 

* * * 

Brian expects it, but it still drags an _oomph_ out of him when he’s tackled to the bed from behind. Pat’s getting fucking _good_ at this, at hitting the angle exactly right so Brian’s thighs dangle futilely over the edge, hips pinned between bony-strong knees, robbed of the leverage he needs to buck up and unseat the body above him. If it’s a bare contest of strength, Brian usually wins—he’s got more explosive power, more flexible hips, a higher pain tolerance and less hesitation to be really fuckin’ _extra_ —but Pat’s all sinewy strategy, and he’s learned Brian’s weak points. 

They’re fighting for hand control, now, Pat’s knobbly knuckles driving _hard_ into Brian’s shoulderblade as he wrangles Brian’s wrist. He wants to spit out something bratty, but he hasn’t got the air—too busy panting shallow breaths from effort and arousal and the weight on his stomach from Pat’s well-angled pelvis. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” Brian manages to get out, as Pat’s long limbs win the battle, torque his arm up behind him. Pat’s locking his shoulder and _driving_ down, thumb into the delicate underbelly of Brian’s wrist. He’s not gonna be able to get it free without yelping in pain and Laura is _right fucking there_ so— “Okay, _okay!_ Uncle, uncle, you win.” 

The victor shifts ever-so-slightly, leans back his hips, perhaps in reaction to the breathless gasping. He doesn’t get up, though. Patrick knows Brian too well. He expects tricks. He doesn’t let go, or let up, just leans a bit and nudges Brian’s thighs apart to pin them with the front of his legs, press the advantage of his height and of having both feet on the goddamn floor. 

“What d’you have to say for yourself,” Pat murmurs. 

“I’m not gonna _apologize_ ,” Brian sulks, and squirms, and bites back half a yelp. 

“You’re such a _brat_ ,” his tone drags. “Clayton already burned my ass so fuckin’ hard on the last Overboard—” 

“—you deserved that— _owwww_ ,” he whines, the most annoying he can make it.

“Fuck you,” Pat grunts. 

There’s something in his tone that’s a little…something. Off. Brian stops struggling for a moment, goes limp, to ponder it. Pat feels it, must feel it, the strain falling out of the muscles below him. He lets up a little, too. Not too much. _It could be a feint_ , Brian senses the thought in Patrick’s fingers. Fair enough. He’s been known to do that. 

Not this time, though. “Pat, does it—did it really bother you?” He has to lift his head, strain his neck to keep his voice from being smothered in the blankets, and it makes the question come out a little more thready than he’d like. 

Pat lets go of his wrist. Brian doesn’t move, though, just feels the shifting—it’s weird, that he can tell, from the few hip-centric points of contact of their bodies, but he can _feel_ Pat brushing a hand through his hair. “A little. But it’s my own damn fault. I’m just such a fucking _pervert_. It’s not you.” 

“It’s kinda me,” Brian admits. He moves his elbow, tentatively, and when Pat’s fingers don’t grab and force it back, he slowly stretches both arms out in front of him, catlike, working out the kinks in his shoulders. “I dragged you guys through like _eight hours_ of shooting. Everyone’s gonna make a dirty joke in there somewhere. It’s friggin’ exhausting.” 

“Yeah,” Pat sighs, and stands, relieves the pressure on hips and voice. Brian kicks himself up onto the bed completely, pondering while he turns belly-up about how to say _I’m sorry_ without saying I’m sorry. 

“Next time I’ll let you see a cut before I post it.” 

“Nah,” Pat shrugs. He’s unbuckling his pants, stripping his shirt, and Brian props up on his elbow to enjoy the view. “Honestly? I wouldn’t’ve said anything. I didn’t, uh, mind the edit. Until everyone on the internet got their hands on it and told me off—” 

“Don’t read the comments, Patrick,” Brian gives a half-smirk that falls off his face, plunges into something more serious, because he _knows_ Pat was honest-to-god embarrassed on stream last night. Pat doesn’t like to talk about work on his streams. But you can’t help it, when everyone in chat is screaming at you about your filthy mouth. “Really, I didn’t even mean to put you on blast. I sometimes forget that not everyone is, like, ready to strip for more views.” 

He knows that’ll make Pat’s mouth quirk up in a wicked smile, and lo, it does. “Slut.” 

“That’s me, baby,” Brian grins, camp-sexy, spreading his arms wide. “I welcome the abuse. C’mon, internet, just _tell_ me to tone it down. I feed on your disapproval.”

Pat’s stripped to boxers now, and grinning/grumbling through his honest discomfort. “I dunno how I get more fuckin’ chatter for one horny comment then you do for proclaiming your love of eating ass in a goddamn TED talk.” 

“It’s ‘cause you’re all straight-laced and shy, and smokin’ hot, babe,” Brian reaches out a hand, undirected, just a vague request for closeness. “Everyone knows I’m easy.” 

“Mmm,” Pat murmurs, closes the distance, connects their fingertips. “Where’s this going, tonight. ‘Cause maybe I should shower, depending.” 

Brian smiles. “I think I owe you one. Dealer’s choice.”

Pat’s tooth catches his lip, just faint, just for a _second_ , just that beat of hesitation. “Maybe let’s jerk off, then? Keep it quiet. Because of your sister.” 

“Oh _no_ you don’t,” Brian lets go, flips on his tummy sharply and looks up at Pat. He’s propped up on his elbows, eyes narrowed, peeking through his hair, shooting for _maximally naughty_. “I friggin’ saw that _look_ , Patrick. You want something. What’re you thinking about.” 

Pat hesitates so long that Brian thinks it might be impossible to get it from him, to draw out what dark thought made his jaw clench that way, to dig the needle in and drag that splinter into the light. But then. Eye contact breaks— 

“Dunno…” 

“Liar,” Brian barks. “Out with it.” 

Pat’s gaze snaps back, and he’s biting his lip in earnest now, looking fucking _vulnerable,_ in that way he does. “You’re _younger_ than me.” 

The thought crystallizes with a _snap_ and Brian lets a slow grin leak over his face. 

“Then go shower, baby boy.” 

Pat blushes straight down his neck and flees. 

* * * 

Pat’s fucking _beautiful_ like this, splayed out on Brian’s baby-blue sheets, pale chest, dark hairs, a thin-limbed creature of surprising strength pinned by only fingertips. He’s got one long leg bent, but not for leverage—just curled up tight, while the other stretches out and _trembles_ below the ankle where it juts off the bed. 

Brian wishes he could see that no-doubt-red-flushed face, but his elbow’s been hiding it for literal minutes. Pat can’t hide those noises he’s making, though, those little _whimpers_ when Brian really digs into him, fingertips angling, searching for spots that shake feeble sounds from between his gritted teeth. 

“You like that?” Brian trills innocently, when he scissors his fingers apart and tightens the grip in tandem, thumb and forefinger ‘round the base of his cock, not _stroking_ , just a little pressure, enough to make Pat groan.

“ _Yes,_ ” the muffled response comes. 

“Yes _what_.” He draws his lubed fingers out, sudden. 

Pat’s breathing heavy, stuffy short breaths, a man treading water, a strong swimmer who’s nonetheless well out to sea—

“Yes...sir?” 

He lets go of Pat’s cock completely, draws both hands away. The loss of feeling rips a keening sound out of his prey. “Nope. Try again.” 

There’s no response, but more of the breathing, the tensing everywhere, the war of muscles against each other as Pat tries to stay afloat.

“If you’re gonna get fucked tonight you’re gonna have to say it,” Brian scolds, traces the slick tips of his fingers up the underside of Pat’s cock. If he could bottle those little teary sounds of need, he would.

“ _Please_ —” 

“Beg all you want,” Brian pushes an edge into his tone, lets his own lust drive it into raspier registers. “I’m doing all the fucking work. Opening you up, making you feel nice. Just say it. It’s the _least_ you could do.” 

Brian punctuates this with a fingertip at Pat’s entrance, pushes it barely, barely in and flicks it out again. The _yelp_ he gets is so ragged that he hesitates a moment—his nails aren’t long enough to scratch, right?—but no, no, that little sob is just sheer desperation, not pain, he reckons, so he drags his fingertip back, positioning—

 _“Don’t!”_ Pat throws his arm down, cranes his neck up—staring wildly, stricken— 

“I’m hearing a lot of noises that aren’t what I’m looking for.” He can’t match Pat’s flat delivery, but his sharklike smirking seems good enough. 

“ _God_ —fuck—Brian—please—I can’t— _I can’t_ —” he’s gulping air, desperate, horny, needy, trying _so_ very hard to beg quietly. 

“You know what I need, baby,” Brian soothes. 

“I _can’t_ ,” Pat says, tense and near-teary. 

“Do I have to pay you seventy-thousand bits for it?” Brian deadpans, in his most wicked voice, and seizes Pat’s dick _hard_ , because he wants to _see_ —to see what happens to that tight, miserable, pleading expression— 

oh, it’s fucking _good_ , the throaty wet gasp, the eyelid-flutter, the way he moans and _collapses_ to the sheets, all-tense to boneless, like Sampson relinquishing the last ounce of his strength to Delilah’s shears— 

“Oh _please,_ daddy,” Pat moans, _quite_ too loud. “ _God,_ daddy, please, fuck me, _please_ —” 

“There we go,” Brian smirks. “That’s daddy’s little slut.” 

Pat _sobs_ as Brian drives both fingers back in. 

* * * 

He has to fuck Patrick face-down into the mattress, because those loose wanton noises are _much_ too free and lewd to subject Laura to. _It’s a pity,_ Brian murmurs, in a moment of pause, when he’s pressing his chest up against Pat’s sweat-slicked back and finding a tender place to bite into his shoulder. _I’d love hearing you scream ‘oh daddy, yes, fuck me harder, fill me with your cock, your little whore needs you inside.’_

As usual, Pat just sobs in response to his mocking, fights futilely against the hand in his hair, fights to bury his face in the pillows, to smother his tears of shame and lust. 

“Don’t hide from daddy,” Brian coos, and rips his head to the side, sharp enough to make sure it hurts. “Give me those pretty tears. 

“Y-you’re an _asshole_ ,” Pat rasps out, so faint and trembling it really doesn’t land. 

“Hmm?” Brian hums, a tone of indeterminate meaning. Teasing, or listening. He waits for Pat to collapse the wavefunction. 

“T-talk a big game but you’re barely even— _ah_ —moving back there.” 

“Ah, you want it harder…?” he drawls, draws out the question—still not sure—too much, or not enough—?

Pat sucks in a wet breath and _shivers_ , his body twitching tight against Brian’s own. “Oh, daddy, fuck me up _right_ —” his tone drops right back down into that sunken-sultry one that made Brian’s dick twitch on fucking camera the day of that goddamn shoot “—but dear _god_ let my head go—or your fucking neighbors are gonna hear—what a fucking cockslut I am—” 

Brian laughs in delight and lets him go, lets him stifle his cries into the mattress as he shifts back, seizes Pat’s sharp hips like handles and drives in hard again. 

* * * 

Pat doesn’t consent to being little spoon, afterward—he does sometimes, but in this instance, he declares it would destroy his last shreds of dignity. 

“You should just let me hold you, baby,” Brian murmurs, draws a hand through Pat’s sweaty hair. “That’s the best part.” 

“Oh, you’re all tender loving kisses _now_ ,” Pat snarks. “You’re not the one who’s gonna need a standing desk tomorrow.” 

“You _asked_ for it,” Brian points out, and tugs a bit at his hair. “Did I miss a cue, or…?” 

“No. No...you’re right. I asked for it,” Pat sighs. He’s slumped on his back, shoulders loose and relaxed, but then he moves—pulls his hands up to cover his face, sticks his elbows up. Brian calculates approximately five minutes before those stray post-coital thoughts creep their way back up Pat’s gorgeous arms, burrow into his shoulders, curl his back into an ugly knot. 

“You didn’t hate it, though…?” Brian lets his voice waver, uncertain, seeking approval. “Is it okay if I liked it?”

Pat drops a hand, turns his head, gives Brian that _look_ that means _i-know-you’re-playing-me-but-thank-you._ “Yeah, yeah, it’s okay. God help me, I liked it too. I hate that I like it. But I _like_ it. You and your stupid mustache and your fucking perfect hips—”

Brian grins and drags a hand across Pat’s waist, pushes their bodies closer together, rolls a little belly-dancer wave into Pat’s side. “Ooh, daddy likey, keep the compliments coming, babydoll.” 

He earns a groan. “Oh fucking _please_ don’t do that. I’ll die. I’ll turn into fucking dust.”

“I got it, I got it,” Brian nods, having intuited this rule already. But y’know, rules are made to be broken. “Nothing cutesy. Stern daddies only. You like to be _punished._ ” 

“Oh my fucking _god_ —” Pat rolls, and—

shit— 

when’d he get his hand in Brian’s hair?

  
* * * 

There’s so many fucking _ways_ Pat can pin him down, it’s always a rather exhilarating object lesson. 

“What’s this hold called,” he murmurs, strangled, into Pat’s armpit, after the brief few seconds of struggle. 

“Half-nelson,” Pat drawls. “C’mon, you know this one.” 

Brian squirms, but his neck can’t move against Pat’s grip, and his arm’s pinned back and useless. God, he fucking loves it, how _good_ Pat is at this, how he can buck and writhe and _honestly_ fight and still lose, doesn’t have to fake a damn thing, doesn’t have to pull any punches, he’s never had a partner who could really just fuckin’ flip him over and make him beg for mercy— 

“Cut out the teasing, kid. I’m gonna get enough of it on tomorrow’s stream.” 

“Hah,” Brian pants out, wickedness not yet exhausted. “What’re you gonna do to me, old man? D’you honestly think you’re gonna— _guh_ —”

“Yes, I honestly think I’m gonna win this one,” Pat says evenly. He’s collecting himself, _has_ collected himself a bit, is descending from the bedraggled zenith of humiliation. He’s a strange and tender creature, Patrick. Wild and wonderful, but closed-off in his way—if you actually get your rapier close enough for a _touché_ he’s liable to just concede the match—to spiral away into his own strange darkness. 

Unless you give him something to parry. Luckily, he’s dating a professional brat. 

“Whatcha gonna do?” Brian mocks, with the last of his breath. “Teach me a lesson? You don’t have the stamina for— _fuck!_ ”

He’s flipped over the edge of the bed—not head-first, Pat would never—and lets loose a pitiful wail as Pat tackles him. 

* * * 

Pat’s in a rare mood, when they finally switch off the light. They cuddle up in the forgiving darkness and draw up the thin sheet—it’s too hot to be covered, but Patrick has a _thing_ about it, he needs _something_ on him to fall asleep. Later, Brian can shuck it off, but for now he tolerates the slight weight for the pleasure of Pat’s touches.

“How do you _do_ that,” Pat murmurs, drawing his hand up Brian’s burning thighs with something like reverence.

“Get spanked? I mostly just lie there, Pat,” Brian laughs, and then squeaks at the chiding pinch. 

“Not what I mean.”

“Then what d’you mean?” Brian prompts, and snuggles close. 

“How do you...how do you _let_ me do that?” 

He rolls a shrug back into Pat’s arm. “I like it, Pat. It turns me on.” 

“I’d die of shame if you turned me over your knee,” Pat admits into the nape of Brian’s neck, voice soft and mellow and sleepy and wispy-truthful. “I’d never be able to.” 

If this weren’t Pat, Brian would say something like _oh, that’s okay!_ or _dude, that’s fine_ or _you really don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do, yknow?_

But this is Pat. Pat, who rolls in like a lion and out like a lamb. Pat, who blushes innocent and fucks filthy. Pat, who says _i’d never_ when he means _i’d like to_. 

“You could,” Brian murmurs, nuzzling sleepy into the pillow. “I bet you ten bucks. I just have to get you deeper into the headspace. I like a challenge.” 

Pat sighs, resigned. “You know I’d do anything for you.” His breath stirs the hairs on Brian’s neck. “I love you, you little asshole.” 

“I know you do,” Brian smirks, and lets it lie.

**Author's Note:**

> EDIT: hi dear readers, i turned on comment moderation despite the anon 'cause it seemed there might be stealth folks out there tryna comment w/out outing they kinks. 
> 
> enough folks chimed here to make me kind of reflective on the matter of writing daddy kink in general, so, a treatise: 
> 
> p much every kink comes in degrees, and fictional depictions of kink even more so. i get so FRUSTRATED that i can't tag things with some more subtle indication of degree-of-kink-depth, because i hate the idea of turning off readers who would enjoy it, but i never ever want to trigger people who are looking to avoid it. in particular, i write fic in which characters use 'daddy' or 'papi' or things like that to be intimate or playful and also acknowledge their D/s dynamics, while hoving away from any deeper roleplay. but i also write fic that crowds up to the edge of the terms' connotations, traipses into ageplay and the like. 
> 
> and so, i propose a five-point guttman scale of fictional daddy kink:
> 
> [1] intermittent jokes, exclamations, or cutesy consciously-teasing language  
> [2] used as a regular form of intimate address w/out exploring connotations  
> [3] role-play elements that explore connotations of the terms (e.g. ageplay, spanking)  
> [4] consenting adult characters roleplay overtly incestuous situations  
> [5] fictional depictions of incest
> 
> personally? i don't fuck with [5]. i can't really write [4] and don't intend to. i will always tag [3], and i'm open to suggestions on how to tag it more overtly so people can avoid things they hate, because i adore writing it but it is clear why people would get squicked by it. i'll always tag [2] and [1], also. 
> 
> whatever decimal your personal lines fall at, dear reader, you are totally cool and normal and i'm not out here to judge or to push you further. i just wanted to offer some sort of explanation b/c so many of you mentioned it as a soft limit in comments. - fish


End file.
